Moving On
by HBfan26
Summary: "John Watson knew, and when he realised it, he laughed." Would John Watson really believe what happened in Reichenbach really happened? I really don't think so!


**Moving On**

If you asked Dr John Watson how long he had known that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, that he hadn't in fact died and that it had all been some fantastic magic trick, he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Because he didn't know. He didn't know how long it had been since he realised that his best friend wasn't dead after all, but still alive, still alive somewhere out there, in London, in England, in Europe, in the world.

All he knew was that when the first horrible wracking grief ridden weeks were over, when people stopped calling and texting and asking him "Are you alright John?". When he could sit in peace in his sisters spare room (he hadn't gone back home then, couldn't, not then, not until he realised…)…when he finally could sit and think about something other than then phone call and the blood and the unspeakable anger and guilt and sadness and loss and sorrow, then he knew.

John Watson was no Sherlock Holmes, had never tried to match his friends brilliance, had never wanted to even, but he underestimated himself. John Watson was still capable of a deduction or two.

The call, "_It's my note" "I'm a fake"._, John knew that despite people's opinions of him as a hard hearted sociopath he was capable of jumping off a building, of killing himself to save someone else, maybe even to save Queen and country but those words and that request…._"Keep your eyes on me".. _No. That wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He didn't ring his only friend and ask him to watch him split his head open on a London pavement in broad daylight.

And once he realised it John Watson laughed.

Laughed out loud for the first time in 3 months. Laughed as he sat in his sister's dingy spare room with its magnolia walls and lavender bedspread.

In some ways knowing made it easier. It made it easier to move back to Baker St, to ignore Mycroft's car as it followed him around London, always watching, always 'looking out' for him. It made it easier to get up in the morning, to go back to work, to face Sarah and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Harry.. to greet his patients with a smile and listen sympathetically to their woes.

Some days he could even ignore the noise in his head, the "SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK" constantly beating on his brain and drowning out everything else.

No. Now he could be himself. Now he could do what people said. Move on. Sherlock was alive, doing what he did best, disappearing, solving crimes, chasing Moriarty. Protecting the people he loved. John could understand that, he could.

But sometimes it wasn't any easier, sometimes despite his newfound and unshakeable belief that his _friend_ was alive, sometimes it didn't help, it didn't help the anger that bubbled up inside of him unexpectedly and at the strangest times. Like sitting on the tube or making tea or taking out the bins for Mrs Hudson. The anger would hit him, would hit him so hard that sometimes it took his breath away. Because it wasn't Lestrade or Donovan or Mycroft or even Moriarty he was angry with, it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock Bloody Holmes so thought he was doing the right thing but actually just left everyone in a world of grief and sadness and anger and denial.

It was easier to 'move on'. It was easier to be happy about the fact that the detective was still alive and hopefully doing some good in the world. And to forget about it, to move on.

So John Watson moved on.

But of course Sherlock Holmes couldn't even let him do that.

At first he didn't know what had woken him up. Baker St was not a quiet part of town as a rule, students coming home from nights out, late night buses, people walking to an from the flats all around. He often woke up in the middle of the night

But not to the sounds of Beethoven on an old and until tonight untouched violin at 3.30am on a Tuesday morning.

Not for the last 13 months anyhow.

He stood up, shuffled down the stairs, knowing, knowing it was real and he wasn't dreaming and anyhow hadn't he known all along that he was still alive?

And as he stood in the doorway looking at him he realised this was it. The reunion. The return of Sherlock Holmes. Just like that. 13 months and he comes back and wakes John playing Beethoven's ruddy miserable symphony of doom at 3.30am. Probably has woken Mrs Hudson, then she'll see a ghost and get a heart attack in their sitting room.

But it didn't really matter. Mrs Hudson would be so happy to see him she would forgive anything, probably give them a free months rent and slap up breakfast. She'd have forgiven Sherlock anything, even faking his own death.

He should say something, shout, cry, punch Sherlock for doing that, for leaving him, for making everyone mourn him. And then he should hug him, should hug him and say "I missed you"

But there was nothing. Nothing inside of him, nothing, no joy, no relief, no anger. Just a sudden pain that he couldn't explain. John Watson couldn't talk, he couldn't shout, he couldn't move. He just stood there until Sherlock turned around, still playing that blasted violin.

Even when he could see him, could see those blue eyes staring at him, full of guilt and sadness and sorrow and "_I'm sorry", _even then he couldn't react. So he did the only thing he could. He ran.

John ran down the stairs and burst out the front door. He ran not caring where he went, not seeing the homeless man that shouted after him, jeering him, not hearing the car that hooted loudly and screeched to a halt as he crossed Baker St.

John Watson kept running because it was the only thing he could do. He ran down streets that were deserted except for the occasional car rushing by, a fox that darted out from an alley and seeing the man running towards him ran down another side street nearby. He ran, ignoring the bursting pain in his lungs, the seeping of the cold wet tarmac through his thin slippers, the voice in his head that kept shouting "SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK" over and over again and wouldn't go away.

He wanted to run forever but instead he caught his slipper, now sopping wet on a loose kerbstone and tripped, falling clumsily onto his hands down onto the pavement. Coughing and gasping he tried to get up, but could only get as far as his knees, bent over, trying to catch his breath, trying to understand what was happening to him.

And then just like all the other times, just like 13 months had never happened, there was Sherlock, walking, no running towards him, bending down, kneeling in front him, hands on either side of John's cold (wet?) face, talking him, asking him "Are you alright"

"I…..I've moved on"

It didn't make any sense. That those should be the first words John Watson chose to say to his friend after all this time. He knew it wasn't right, it didn't make sense. But he couldn't, he didn't….. he…"

Sherlock looked at him, looked through him with those piercing eyes and then smiled. (_Stupid bloody sociopathic bastard)_.

"I wouldn't expect anything less John"

Then Sherlock's coat was around his shoulders and Sherlock was standing in front of him, hand outstretched to help John up.

"Shall we go back to Baker St? It's late and you're not exactly dressed for a night-time stroll"

And John found he was standing, with the coat pulled tightly around him. He was cold, freezing cold and wet, and he was standing shivering in the middle of London at 4am with Sherlock _(bloody) _Holmes. Again.

Moving on.

This time really moving on.


End file.
